


Lichtenberg Figures

by toomuchagain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Introspection, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 09:12:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchagain/pseuds/toomuchagain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean notices something about the handprint scar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lichtenberg Figures

Dean didn't notice it at first—the scar still too new, too swollen and tender. It takes nearly a year before it's settled into something smoother, more pink than red, heading towards white. It's much closer to healed, but it still feels tight and itchy sometimes.

Sam's still asleep across from him, breathing snuffily and peaceful into his pillow. It's early yet, and they can both afford a little while longer in bed before they have to get up and start dealing with the Apocalypse again.

Absently, Dean reaches up to scratch at the hand print on his shoulder. A shaft of light filters past the cheap, coarse curtains. His eyes follow the dust motes dancing through it as his hand eases from scratching to idly rubbing the marred skin. He's relaxed and comfortable and can pretend for a moment that their lives aren't complete shit, and Heaven and Hell's heavyweights aren't trying to go all Jame Gumb on their asses.

He doesn't notice when his fingers start tracing the tiny, intricate paths pressed tight together, like the whorls and loops on a palm. But as they work their way through the minuscule maze, his mind starts to follow them. Frowning, he pulls his chin back, twisting his arm so he can peer at the scar. The light of the sunbeam hits it too directly, blurring the texture of his skin, and he shuffles over so he can study it in softer light.

Sure enough, he can make out tiny, compact lines. As he continues to study it, he realizes the hand print is, in fact, not actually solid at all, but the little scar lines are so concentrated, it had certainly seemed so in its more inflamed state.

Dean blinks, startled at the realization. Curious, he presses a finger hard against the tissue, waiting a moment before he lifts it. The pattern stands out more strongly—an irregular, chaotic network, like glass fracturing under too much pressure, or lightning breaking across the sky.

His mind flashes to the cracking electricity that arched from Raphael's back, and he grins at the memory of the flashy assclown thinking he'd outmaneuvered them by showing up at the house. Maybe he doesn't have the juice the archangels do, but Dean's of the opinion that Cas outclasses the lot of them in the brains department.

Cas is pretty scary powerful even without the Hemi engine, Dean thinks as his palm slides to cover the print. He imagines Cas sans vessel, just a shapeless blob of energy grasping the sorry-ass wreck of Dean's soul, burning all that crap and bloody darkness into a frozen mosaic like lightning burning sand into glass—like a self-portrait. His hand tightens on his shoulder, the thought shooting sparks of heat racing down his nerves, like the energy that put the damn thing there belatedly picking up its abandoned course and burrowing through the rest of him, marking him all over.

Swallowing, Dean rolls out of bed, away from the pleasant way the imagined sensation settles low and messy in his gut and redirects the blood in his veins.

He sounds like Sam, he berates himself, thinking all this poetic bullshit. It's just a stupid scar—Cas was a dick back then. Probably he did it on purpose to give Dean a visible reminder how big and bad he was, in case he felt like deviating from the path.

Not really worth wasting time thinking about.

Dean pushes down the revelation and the feelings (already so familiar) it sprouted, and decides to forget about it.


End file.
